Caught Off Guard
by knockoutmouse
Summary: Sequel to "Melt". The last thing that Pickles and Skwisgaar have on their mind now is the failed attack that brought them together. But Tony hasn't given up yet. Once again enlisting the aid of Dr. Rockso, he enacts a plan to get Pickles all to himself-whether the drummer is willing or not. Warning: Contains non-con.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Usually I only post finished one-shots, but I figure there's a first time for everything, so we'll see how it goes with an in-progress story. Sequel to "Melt."

**Contains (in this chapter):** Profanity, drug references, mild sexual language

Caught Off Guard: Chapter One

Skwisgaar paced along the cold flagstone floor of his room. He was waiting for Pickles to arrive for their afternoon rendezvous, and his nerves buzzed with pleasant anticipation, not only to see the drummer in private, secretly, in the middle of the day while the rest of the band were around yet occupied with their own activities, but also because of what he'd discreetly acquired the day before—and discretion was not something that Skwisgaar normally cared much about. The thought of what was in store—if Pickles agreed to it—already had his cock beginning to swell, but that feeling was, somehow, all tangled up with an excitement at the fact that he and Pickles would shortly be together by themselves, on their own terms, and able to touch and hold each other away from the (so far) oblivious eyes of their bandmates.

Now, there came a light tap at the door before it swung open to admit Pickles. He had barely had time to step inside and latch the door behind him before Skwisgaar reached his side and pulled him into a close embrace, resting his cheek against the top of the other man's head, still not fully accustomed to the rough feel of dreadlocks against his skin.

"You ams so little," he murmured, unable to suppress a teasing smile as he leaned down to kiss the drummer on the temple.

"I ain't little, dood. You're just tall."

"Maybies," agreed Skwisgaar, this time bending down further to kiss him properly on the mouth. Pickles returned the kiss with enthusiasm and gave a small sigh of enjoyment as they finally broke apart.

"Come heres," he whispered, his voice husky with need, taking Pickles by the hand and pulling him toward the bed. The other man gladly acquiesced.

#

"Oh, Mister Tony, I don't k-k-k-think this is a good idea," said Dr. Rockso nervously, pressing himself against the rust-flecked door of the van. The defunct warehouse offered little shadow to hide them in the midday sun, but there was little danger of anyone taking notice of them.

"Shut it, clown," snarled Tony from beneath the vehicle. "Get over here and help me change this tire."

"But Pickles is friends with T-T-Toki," Rockso began again, nervous fingers picking at the worn, snagged material of his dirty jumpsuit, "and Toki always helps me—"

"I said shut it! If that homicidal manager of theirs knew you had anything to do with what happened last time, you'd be done for. But you help me out again now, and soon we'll be well out of that bastard's reach. Besides, you know what's in it for you if we pull this off."

"C-c-cocaine?" he asked hopefully.

"You got it, pal."

Dr. Rockso swallowed hard, nodded, and slunk around the van to assist Tony. "I sure hope we don't get c-c-c-caught this time."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:**

Characters' views do not necessarily reflect my own.

Somehow, I can't help feeling sorry for Dr. Rockso here.

I promise there's more actual plot in the next chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Please don't sue me or I'll be a sad mouse and even poorer than I am now.

**Contains (in this chapter):** Profanity, sex, references to drug use

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Two

"So's you know hows you saids you wanted me to be fuckings you, but I ams too big?" Skwisgaar began, running a hand up Pickles's thigh, and feeling that he was wearing entirely too much clothing.

"Yeah." Pickles tilted his head back to rest against the blonde's shoulder as they lay together on the bed. "I mean, I think it can be done, but it ain't gonna be a quick thing we can do just like that."

"Ja, I knows. So I gots you somethings what might helps on the ways to that."

"Oh?" asked Pickles, sitting up and turning to face him.

Skwisgaar rolled over to open the drawer of the nightstand, and took out his new acquisition: a moderately-sized black dildo. (He'd taken care to find one that wasn't too big, and had felt that the aesthetics of the thing were important too, dismissing the plethora of lavender and hot pink models as "too much so for the ladies", as he'd scornfully told the saleswoman.)

"I thoughts we coulds start with this and justs see how it goes. No pressures."

"All right," said Pickles, allowing himself a small smile. "Let's try it."

Skwisgaar responded with a rather predatory grin as he ran the tip of the toy lightly down Pickles's cheek and then over his lips. Inspired, he ordered the redhead, "Sucks on it."

Pickles obliged, taking a few inches of the dildo into his mouth. He started to ease back, but then leaned forward and took in more of it, giving a quiet moan around it as he imagined that it was Skwisgaar's dick in his mouth.

"Ja, that ams more likes it," breathed Skwisgaar, pulling it away and leaving Pickles with a pouting expression of disappointment. "Gets undressed."

Without hesitation, Pickles stripped off his shirt, pants, and underwear, throwing them to the floor. Meanwhile, Skwisgaar occupied himself by pouring lube into his hand and rubbing his palms together to warm it. His object accomplished and Pickles fully naked, he moved to sit between the drummer's legs, and took the smaller man's half-hard cock in his hand. Pickles gasped at the touch of the warm, slick skin against his member.

"Oh God—Skwisgaar—that feels so good," he managed as the Swede stroked him and brought him to full erection. Skwisgaar leaned down to lick a drop of pre-cum from the tip of his cock, making the drummer gasp again.

To Pickles's dismay, Skwisgaar didn't continue. He sat back up, poured out more lube, and began easing one finger into him, moving slowly for fear of hurting the drummer. The older man may have been more experienced when it came to this kind of thing, but Skwisgaar assumed, correctly, that it has been a while since he'd done it. If Pickles hooked up with men, he limited it to oral sex, or else he topped them; he'd been hurt too many times before, physically, to want to receive anal from anyone before he trusted them.

"You likes that?" asked Skwisgaar, now working two fingers inside the drummer and observing with satisfaction the almost desperate way Pickles had begun to move his hips, thrusting against his hand, trying to drive his fingers in further.

"Mmm—yeah, I do. C'mon, I need more than that."

"Takes it easy, Pickle. I ams not wanting to hurts you."

"Ya ain't gonna hurt me, babe. Give me more. Please," he added.

"All rights," Skwisgaar agreed, though he made sure to continue fingering him as he leaned over to kiss him before proceeding. To his surprise, Pickles caught at him, kissing him passionately, one hand finding a hold in the blonde hair and the other grasping at the back of his shirt, clawing at him, pulling him in closer.

Panting, Skwisgaar finally broke away from the kiss. "Pickle, I was not expectskings that."

"I just—you, I've gotta have you."

"Ja, ja, all in goods time." Skwisgaar slid his fingers out of the drummer and now applied lube to the dildo, pressing it as gently as he could to the other man's entrance. Pickles made a sound of impatience and reached down to take hold of Skwisgaar's wrist, essentially forcing the guitarist to guide it into him.

"Ahh—that's—that's much better," murmured Pickles. "God, I wish I could just take it all right now." He looked up at Skwisgaar, eyes bright, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I want your cock in me."

Skwisgaar would have been lying if he'd said he didn't ardently desire the same thing, but the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to cause Pickles any pain.

"We will gets there, _min älskling_. Maybies not this times," he admitted, not without a trace of disappointment, "but eventuallies." As much as he wanted to fuck him, Skwisgaar was realistic, and he didn't know if Pickles could last long enough for him to work up to it. Already the drummer was biting his lip, breathing harder, having trouble keeping still, the occasional moan escaping him as Skwisgaar slowly worked the toy in and out of him.

Skwisgaar slid his hands beneath the other man's hips and helped him toward the edge of the bed, then knelt, thankful for the rug on his side of the bed. Continuing to penetrate Pickles with the dildo, searching continually for a better angle, he leaned forward to take his straining erection into his mouth, taking it in as deep as he could and running his tongue down the shaft when he couldn't take any more. He proved to be correct in his assumption about Pickles's ability to endure much more: after a few moments, the drummer gave himself up to making shallow thrusts into Skwisgaar's mouth.

"Yeah—Skwisgaar—yeah, come on, suck me, like that—" He came, crying out, as Skwisgaar held onto his hips, bracing himself for the warm liquid hitting the back of his throat. That had never been something he'd liked, but he didn't mind it quite so much when it was with Pickles. In fact, it turned him on that much more to be that close to the drummer as he came.

"Whoa, dood. That was intense," said Pickles once he'd caught his breath. "All right, just you wait. You're next."

#

"Move it, you clown! Christ, I'd swear you were _trying_ to slow me down."

"I'm k-k-k-sorry," said Dr. Rockso. "I'm goin' as fast as I can. This box is _heav-vy_." Rockso burst into a fit of nervous giggles.

Tony stared at him in distaste, feeling a strong desire to kick the desperate painted smile right off the clown's pathetic face. He suppressed the urge. Dr. Rockso was still necessary to his plan—for now.

Between the two of them, they dragged the cardboard box into the back of the van, in the corner near the battered suitcase holding Tony's meager belongings, along with some cash and an assortment of booze and drugs. Next to that was the dirty blanket that Rockso slept on and under which he'd stashed a few more spandex suits and whatever he was using for makeup these days.

"Mister Tony?" Dr. Rockso asked, panting from the effort of heavy lifting.

"Yeah, what?"

"How we gonna find Pickles? I mean, how you gonna get him with all those guards around?"

At least now he was asking a sensible question. "Ah, you'd think so, but you'd be surprised." Warming to the subject, Tony lit a cigarette and offered one to the clown. "See, Pickles don't like to follow the rules. That's what gets him into trouble." He lit Rockso's cigarette and ignored the lewd wink that followed. "Sooner or later, he'll wanna go out to score some dope, or wander away when he's drunk, or sneak off on his own just 'cause he knows Offdensen doesn't want to let them out of his sight."

"Oh." Rockso nodded. "So what do we do k-k-k-now?"

Tony exhaled smoke, and his eyes glinted with an unpleasant confidence. "Now, we wait."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I've got nothing against Nirvana, I swear. Also, the geography here is more or less made up.

**Obligatory PSA:** Hey, kids, remember that it's not cool to drive under the influence of alcohol or drugs in real life.

**Contains:** Mild profanity, light drug use, mild violence, and threats of violence involving weapons

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Three

Skwisgaar lay with his head resting again Pickles's naked chest as the drummer smoked a joint, passing it occasionally to Skwisgaar. "Mmm…Skwisgaar?"

"Ja?"

"It's early still." He ran a hand down Skwisgaar's back, playing idly with his hair. "You wanna get out of here for a while, like, really off Mordland?"

"You ams feeling restless, Pickles?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that. I wanna just get away. With you," he added. "Somewhere we can walk around together, outside of this room, without anybody caring about it."

Skwisgaar nodded. "Ja, I would nots mind that."

Fifteen minutes later, Skwisgaar found himself following Pickles, feeling a mild thrill as they sneaked down one of the back staircases, typically the domain of the Klokateers. Of course, it was their house and they could go where they pleased, but their clandestine plans brought him a kind of excitement that he rarely felt, one that wasn't tied to sex in some way. Pickles wanted to go do something with _him_.

Although they were going out in public, they didn't wish to attract attention: Pickles had thrown on a dark grey hoodie, and Skwisgaar had pulled his hair back into a ponytail and donned an old flannel shirt left over from his last visit to Sweden, leaving it open over his black t-shirt.

"Dood, you're lookin' pretty grunge, wearing that," said Pickles as he led the way down a service hallway to the garage. "except ya look too happy."

"Like people what listens to Nirvana? Pfft, that ams—"

"Shh," Pickles cut him off, and the two stepped back into the shadows as two employees passed by, discussing in low voices the maintenance of the yard wolves' pens.

"Why ams we hidings?" whispered Skwisgaar after the Gears had passed out of earshot.

"'Cause—heh, I guess I don't really know," Pickles admitted, giving his hand a squeeze. "Guess I'm just jumpy today. I don't really know why."

"From—from whats we dids?" asked Skwisgaar, frowning.

"Oh! No, nothin' like that, honey. I just feel—" Pickles shook his head, dismissing it from his thoughts. "Maybe I just need to smoke a little more weed."

"Pickle, please, not if you ams drivings," said Skwisgaar as they emerged into the garage.

"Yeah, you're right." Pickles smiled at the still-frowning blonde. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

The Murdercycle made short work of the trip; they drove two towns over from the one nearest Mordland, deciding that the further they went, the less likely it was that someone would recognize them.

The two men wandered unhurriedly through town. Skwisgaar wasn't sure what Pickles had in mind. He also wasn't sure how the drummer expected him to behave toward him in public when venturing out incognito. His doubts were pacified, however, when Pickles casually reached over and took his hand

"You're not embarrassed or anything, are ya?" asked Pickles.

"Me? No, why?"

"I dunno, you just seem—I dunno," Pickles repeated, his worried gaze sweeping over Skwisgaar's face.

"I ams feelings perfectlies fine."

Pickles shook his head. "Yeah. I must be imagining it. Something seems—weird, that's all."

"Tries nots to worries abouts it," Skwisgaar suggested, and Pickles nodded.

Holding hands, they wandered through the grid-like maze of side streets until they happened upon a park. Exchanging a look, they went through the gates and moved slowly along the gravel path flanked by trees in spring bloom.

"This is nice," said Pickles. "It's getting a little chilly though, you think?" It was still mid-afternoon, and the days were lengthening as summer approached, but it wasn't there yet, and the temperature still fell noticeably toward evening.

"It does nots bothers me," said Skwisgaar truthfully. "But if you ams cold—"

"Nah, dood, I'm fine—ooh! Look at the swans!"

Before Skwisgaar could fully process that statement, Pickles had left his side and started toward the pond that was just visible around the next bend in the path. Skwisgaar quickened his pace and caught up as the drummer crouched at the edge of the water, reaching out toward the fluffy white birds, who paddled in the water at a safe distance, eyeing him with suspicion.

"Hey, little swan doods, c'mere."

"Watch out, Pickle. Thems dildos swans will bites you."

"Eh, it'll be all right," said Pickles absently, edging further down the bank and leaning back to rest his weight on his heels. "Hey, come on, ya douchebag swans, I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"Pickle," pleaded Skwisgaar, "Don'ts get so close to's the water." Great, now whatever paranoia was affecting the drummer seemed to be catching. No, he reasoned, it was probably just the weed from earlier, plus the fact that he didn't often smoke. Still, the feeling of apprehension was hard to shake.

"Look, the ground ams wet, and it will be cold if you falls in."

"All right! Fine. We'll go." Pickles stood quickly, and his foot slipped in the mud, making him lose his balance. He threw an arm out and grasped at air as he tried not to fall. Skwisgaar reached out to catch hold of his shoulder just as Pickles steadied himself on his own.

"Pickle—"

"I'm fine!" he snapped, roughly shrugging off the guitarist's hand and starting away, alone, on the path. God, now he'd made himself look like a total fool because he didn't listen, because other people always knew better and following his own impulses only brought trouble—and those douchebag birds—and now Skwisgaar was probably laughing at him, thinking what an idiot he was—

No. Skwisgaar might do that to the rest of the guys, but he wasn't like that with Pickles, not now that they were together. His pace slowed as the anger drained away. He knew, really, that Skwisgaar wasn't trying to treat him like a child. He was only trying to be protective, but Pickles didn't know how to deal with _protective_, and sometimes it rubbed him the wrong way. He stopped and waited for Skwisgaar without turning around, pretending instead to be interested in a sparrow that had just alighted upon the nearby hedge.

By the pond, Skwisgaar sighed and started after the drummer. He knew well enough by now that Pickles wasn't really mad at him; he was just mad at himself that he'd almost fallen, and even that wouldn't last. That was how Pickles operated—he'd storm off in a rage one moment and have come down from it the next. He'd apologize, Skwisgaar knew. Still, this time it hurt him a little to have his touch rejected so harshly. Maybe he should brush away Pickles's hand when he reached out for him once he caught up.

No. His heart softened as he neared the drummer and saw the smaller man from the side, standing with his shoulders hunched, sweatshirt pulled close around him as he stared off into the distance. Now Pickles shivered, and Skwisgaar wanted nothing more than to go to him and hug him, injured pride be damned. Perhaps they could go back to that coffeehouse he'd noticed on the way there to warm up before starting back home, he mused. A hot drink and a warm bed would do them both good, even if it was a little early for it.

Then Pickles turned to face him, and the sad green eyes were apology enough.

"Skwis, I'm sorry," he called. "Please don't be mad. I know you were only—"

Pickles was cut off as a masked figure, dressed in black, burst out of the hedge and seized him around the waist, the drummer's cry of surprise muffled by the assailant's gloved hand over his mouth. Skwisgaar broke into a sprint toward them, but the black-clad man produced a knife and gestured threateningly toward Pickles's throat. Skwisgaar froze. He and the unknown man stared at each other for a moment, then the latter ran to the left toward the chain-link fence overgrown with vines, forcing Pickles along with him. He kicked aside a section of the fence that had been cut away, and dragged the struggling drummer through it and out onto the street, taking no account in his haste of the sharp metal edges that tore at Pickles's shirt and skin.

A rusty cargo van pulled up, the door already open, and the assailant shoved Pickles into it, throwing him to the floor, then leaping in himself and slamming the door shut as the vehicle picked up speed.

"Did I do k-k-k-good, boss?" came a familiar voice from the front of the van as Tony pulled off his frayed ski mask.

Pickles leapt to his feet and lunged at him, but a fist to the side of his head sent him straight back to the floor, stars exploding in front of his eyes as he renewed his acquaintance with the rough, cheap carpet beneath his face.

In the park, Skwisgaar stared in dumb disbelief after the van, willing himself to move, to call for help, anything, but he felt as if he'd suddenly been plunged into the icy waters of the North Sea and couldn't find his way to the surface.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Oh, God, I really wrote this. I'm kind of disturbed by my own story now. Also, just to be clear: Much of the narration is from Pickles's point of view and is meant to reflect his reaction to the situation, not my attitudes toward sexual assault.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me.

**Contains (in this chapter):** Lots and lots of profanity. Stream-of-consciousness with many comma splices. Threats of violence. Acts of violence. **TW:** **This chapter also contains a pretty graphic rape scene. **Please do not read if it will be upsetting to you.

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Four

Pickles was half-aware of various things happening around him, but couldn't muster the energy to do anything about them. His shoulder and cheek stung from where the wire of the chain-link fence had lacerated his skin, and he was pretty sure his face was bleeding. Tony knelt next to him and unceremoniously yanked Pickles's sweatshirt over his head, then ran an appreciative if shaky hand over the drummer's back and arm, licking his cracked lips in a manner that Pickles would have found most appalling if he'd looked up. Instead, the drummer concentrated on staring at a few pebbles on the floor of the van that were jostled continuously as Rockso sped erratically along the highway. A debate was raging in his head: better to make an effort at organizing his thoughts, or not to think at all? The latter option seemed safer (mentally, at least), but didn't change the fact that he was still here. Grudgingly, he began to take stock of the situation: He was in a van, with Tony, and—had that been Dr. Rockso's voice as Tony had shoved him through the door? Tony had punched him. Tony was currently leaning over him, his now-clumsy fingers grasping and clutching at him.

Pickles groaned and tried to raise his head. It was more difficult than he'd thought. Everything felt so heavy.

"Tony—what the fuck ya think you're doin'?"

"Oh, you're awake." Tony sat up, eyes darting in panic. "Let me just—"

"Let you nothin'. What the hell was that about?" Pickles demanded, attempting to roll over onto his back, but being prevented by the weight of Tony's hand on his shoulder.

"You had an accident," said Tony flatly, just unable to reach the cardboard box in the corner while still holding Pickles down. He shifted his weight to one knee and nudged the box with his foot.

"Like hell I did," said Pickles. "Let me out of here right now, dood."

"I can't do that," said Tony. "You're gonna be here for a while, so make yourself comfortable." He laughed unpleasantly.

"Didn't I make it pretty damn clear I never wanted to see you again after that business you pulled at the hotel?" said Pickles, trying halfheartedly and without success to shrug away Tony's hand. "Charles wanted to have you taken out of the equation permanently, and I told him to let you walk." Pickles glared up at Tony. "And now this is what you do in return?" _And I'm an idiot_, he thought_. Charles knew best. I should have known this would happen_.

"I don't owe you anything," growled Tony, succeeding at getting the box within arm's reach. "If anything, you owe me after the way you treated me last time."

"Last time? What, when you broke into my room and tried to—" Pickles faltered. "Whatever you were trying to do," he mumbled.

"I was trying," said Tony with a sigh as if he were much put-upon to explain it, as he placed his knee at the small of Pickles's back, causing the drummer to gasp in pain, "to make you see reason." From the depths of the box he produced a roll of duct tape. Pickles didn't see it, but recognized the sound as Tony began to unroll it. He struggled in earnest now, but was no match for the heavier man who already had the position of advantage.

"Stop acting like a goddamned idiot or I'll end up hurting you more than I have to," said Tony, catching hold of his right wrist and pinning it under his knee. "Or I could just break all your fingers if you keep that up. Then you wouldn't be good for anything, would you?"

Pickles didn't know if Tony's threat was serious, but since he'd just been thrown bodily by his ex into a van on its way to God-knows-where, the situation seemed serious enough. Defeated, Pickles let his muscles go limp as he tried to keep his breathing even.

"Good boy," said Tony, and began taping his wrists together.

"Whatever you have planned, it's never gonna work," said Pickles, feeling that it sounded pathetically melodramatic.

"Well, the blonde pretty boy back there sure tried to stop me, the way he stood around like he wanted to see the show. Some friends you have," sneered Tony. "Although," he mused, turning around and beginning to tape the drummer's ankles, "I wouldn't have minded having some fun with him, either." He chuckled lewdly.

"Fuck off, Tony." Pickles tried to kick him, but Tony merely caught his feet easily and wrapped the tape a few more times around his ankles for good measure.

"Now, now, see what that gets you? Anyway, I'm just having my fun. You know I've only got eyes for you, babe."

"Charles will find us. He'll have you killed this time for sure, even if I did try to stop him."

"Offdensen doesn't even know you've left Mordhaus, you little fool. I know you sneaked off. By the time he realizes, he won't even know where to look."

Pickles shook his head, but didn't reply. Tony was wrong. Charles always knew what was going on. Even if the band liked to convince themselves they were being clever, he still knew what they were really up to—didn't he?

Now that Tony had finished immobilizing the drummer, he rolled him onto his side and stroked his face. "Sorry to have to do this to you, Pickles, but I know we don't see eye to eye on this, and you'd probably get some idea to try and fight me."

"Just what _is_ your plan, anyway?" asked Pickles, trying to keep his thoughts clear. _Keep him talking, get information, that's the best thing to do_, he told himself.

"I'm staging an intervention, so to speak. A reconciliation. Between us. You'll come around sooner or later. And," he added, having thought out the practical side of the matter as well, "if not, I'm sure that manager of yours could scrape together a couple hundred million to get you back—if he wants you back," he added, voice suddenly cold as he seized a handful of dreadlocks in his fist, making Pickles cry out in surprised pain. "Somehow I think it's more likely he'd rather find a new drummer, one who's not so old—"

"You're three years older than I am," protested Pickles, but Tony went on, talking over him.

"—and who's not a worthless drunk. Which reminds me—" He reached back into the box and pulled out a new bottle of cheap wine. Releasing Pickles in order to open it, he raised it in an ironic toast. "Cheers," he said, and took a swig of the vile liquid.

"Quit talkin' out your ass, Tony. They won't replace me." Pickles said the words with more certainty than he felt. Doubt began to creep in. They'd already replaced him once, albeit temporarily. How could he know they wouldn't again?

"It's a shame your guitarist was with you tonight. Otherwise it'd just look like you ran away. It'd have been a hell of a lot more convenient that way." He took another drink, and his eyes narrowed. "But you've never cared about _my_ plans, _my_ ambitions, have you? Oh, no, it's always been all about you, princess. Pickles, the frontman of Snakes N' Barrels, Pickles, the drummer of Dethklok. You like attention, huh? I'll give you some attention."

Pickles surmised that Tony must've been drinking before as well, if the alcohol was affecting him this quickly. "Tony, calm down. Let's talk about this like rational—_fuckin' stop that!_" he screeched, trying to roll away as Tony began undoing Pickles's belt.

"That's right, baby, fight me. You know it only turns me on more."

"Ya _douche_bag! What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Whatcha k-k-k-doin' back there, Mister Tony? You're not gonna hurt Pickles, are you?"

Tony's eyes narrowed again. "No, no, everything's fine. We're just having a little talk. And watch your driving, clown. You wanna get busted for all this just because you're speeding?"

"Dr. Rockso, don't listen to—mmph." Tony slapped a strip of tape down over his mouth, then added another as Pickles stared up at him with huge eyes.

"Can't have you doin' that, babe. Rockso's not gonna interfere, but if he can hear you, people outside might, too."

Pickles groaned. This just kept getting worse and worse. At this rate, Tony might be right that he'd never be found. But surely, Skwisgaar would tell Offdensen as soon as possible—wouldn't he?

"Yeah, I'll give ya some fuckin' attention," Tony repeated, succeeding at unbuckling the unfortunate drummer's belt. He undid his fly as well and shoved Pickles over so that he fell back to lie face downwards, eliciting an enraged muffled squawk. Tony roughly pulled his jeans down past his hips.

"Mm-mmm," Pickles shook his head desperately.

"Relax," said Tony, "it'll be just like old times. You'll see."

He climbed on top of Pickles, straddling his back, and leaned down to kiss loudly and messily at his neck, a revolting wet tickling feeling. Pickles thrashed and tried to throw him off, but to no avail. Tony continued kissing him, licking at the pulse point below his jaw, and, without warning, plunged his tongue unto the other man's ear, waggling it repulsively.

Pickles gave a strangled shout, feeling utterly violated. Tony pulled away and licked down his cheek, laughing. "You like it."

Pickles gave an involuntary whimper and tried to scrub the side of his face against his shoulder. Tony grabbed him by the hair again. "Don't give me that! You fuckin' like it!"

Tony slid down, resting his weight on Pickles's thighs, making him wince at the pressure bearing down on his knees against the floor of the van. He slapped the drummer's ass and slid down his boxers, undeterred by Pickles's desperate struggles and unintelligible protests.

"I'm gonna give it to you good, baby," leered Tony. He remembered the wine and downed another good portion of the bottle before turning his attention back to Pickles. "I been waiting too long for this," he muttered, and if Pickles could have seen his face, he would've noted the deranged, glazed look in his eyes and the way his mouth hung slack; Tony was barely in control of himself.

He spread the drummer's ass cheeks apart, and paused at finding him still slightly slick and open from his afternoon tryst.

"What the fuck is this?" snarled Tony. "You've been getting fucked by somebody else, that's what," he answered his own question, and for this, Pickles earned a slap to the back of the head.

"Fuckin' slut! Who is it, the skinny blonde? It is, isn't it? You can't do that. You belong to me," Tony panted, breathless with fury, yanking Pickles's head back and forcing him to arch upward. "I'll show you what you need."

He jammed two fingers into him, making Pickles cry out in pain and attempt once again to escape. Tony released his hair in order to give him another, harder slap to the face, or what Tony could reach of his face.

"You ain't gonna screw around on me," he said, punctuating his statement with a still more vicious slap. "Oh, what's this? Yeah, there we go. You're gonna enjoy this too," said Tony as he tapped the other man's prostate, causing him to give another yowl of indignant distress.

Pickles had stopped struggling. He lay still, fighting back tears. He wanted to throw up. None of this could be real, it wasn't happening, the pain—_fuck_—he realized with horror that he had an erection. God, no. He didn't want this—didn't want it at all—why was it happening? His body was betraying him. Pickles shuddered in a combination of nausea and filthy, unwanted physical pleasure as Tony's fingers continued to probe him.

Now Tony grabbed him by the hip and forced him back up onto his side, grinning at the sight of his erect member.

"See, you know you want it. But you gotta remember you're fuckin' _mine_, you greedy whore." Tony backhanded him full in the face now, further splitting open the wound on his cheek, and immediately reached down to jerk his cock. His dirty, calloused hand hurt against the sensitive flesh, and the motion was awkward. Pickles, needing a thought for his mind to catch onto, couldn't decide whether it would be more or less horrid if it didn't feel so unpleasant. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else, anything else, and failed. He felt nothing but intense hatred for his own traitor penis right now. This was disgusting, horrible, flooded him with complete shame. He didn't want it, and yet in a way it felt good, though at the same time sent a cold, sickly shiver up his spine. Oh, God, no, he was going to vomit, he was—_fuck_—shit, no—no, no, not this. He came, dripping onto Tony's wrist and his own shirt.

"How was that for you, slut?" sneered Tony, wiping his hand across Pickles's cheek, smearing his face with his own semen. "You understand that I'm in control of you now?" He withdrew his fingers roughly from the drummer, wiped them on Pickles's underwear without bothering to pull them back up, gave him a kick in the side that knocked him back onto his stomach, and strode away toward the front of the van, leaving Pickles huddled alone on the dirty carpet, shivering as he suddenly felt just how cold the night had become, still half undressed and unable to do anything about it, the taste of bile rising in his throat, feeling a trickle of what he supposed was blood between his legs. Most of his face ached, and his left eyelid had begun to swell, narrowing his field of vision. He dry heaved a few times before his stomach calmed. Oh Jesus God, he was so ashamed of himself. How could he have become aroused by that? He swore he hadn't wanted it—but he hadn't really struggled, had he? If he had, now, that'd be something; he could've stopped him, could've gotten away, but no, he'd let him, just taken it, he must've wanted it—and Skwisgaar—twice in one day—Christ, he must be as insatiable and pleasure-seeking, selfish, fucking childish as Tony had told him he was, had always told him he was. Tony had known, it'd been the truth, years ago he'd told him, years of their relationship filled with encounters like this, he hadn't wanted them but hadn't stopped him, always gave in, always had to hear about how much of a cocktease he was for the way he moved, dressed, looked at Tony across a room, leading him on when he, Pickles, hadn't wanted sex, or hadn't realized he'd wanted sex. As he'd always been, Tony was right—and now Tony had him—Charles wouldn't find him—wouldn't try to find him—Skwisgaar—Skwisgaar was better off without him, not that he'd want him anymore if they did find him—filthy—damaged—soiled.

Pickles curled up in the darkness, trembling, as the tears finally began to roll down his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Once again, the narrative is meant to reflect the characters' thoughts, not mine. Also, I'll be flying for most of tomorrow, so potentially no update for a day or two (although it'll give me plenty of time to write more).

**Disclaimer:** Characters do not belong to me.

**Contains (in this chapter):** Profanity. References to events of previous chapter, but no explicit violence or sexual assault.

Skwisgaar paced before Charles's desk, wringing his hands in agitation, just itching to dash a lamp to the floor, but this was too important; he couldn't distract Charles from the matter at hand.

"Skwisgaar, do you have any idea how many deranged people there are out there who are dedicated to the idea of doing you boys harm? You're sure there's nothing you recognized about this man?"

"Well…he was kind of fats," said Skwisgaar. "Kind of like that man what ams in Pickle hotels rooms in—"

"You know about that?" asked Charles sharply.

"Ja," said Skwisgaar, going to the window to stare out into the darkness, then turning back to Charles, an expression of anguish momentarily crossing his face. "I was there, when they takes him outs."

Charles nodded slowly. _I was there_. Yes. A sudden memory, a motion Pickles had made at the time that now made sense, sidestepping Charles to block him from entering the room, eyes darting over to the blankets piled upon the bed, a faint stirring, lasting only an instant, that he'd dismissed at the time as a trick of the light. A strand of blonde hair clinging to Pickles's shirt that he'd brushed away, belonging not to a groupie but to Skwisgaar. Yes. Charles would've known, really, if he'd thought about it, but it hadn't been important at the time.

"I—ah—have to ask," continued Charles in a dry tone, consciously trying to soften his words, yet not particularly succeeding. "You and Pickles, you are, then, in a relationship, or—?" When the Swede didn't answer, Charles went on, "I ask only because I need to know everything in order to deal with the situation as appropriately as possible. I'll keep it in confidence, you understand."

"We ams—" Skwisgaar hesitated, then nodded. "Ja. We ams together."

Charles gave him a long, inscrutable look, then nodded. "Thank you for telling me, Skwisgaar. Now," he said, reaching for the intercom button on his desk, "if there's nothing else—?"

"_Nej_," sighed Skwisgaar, and stood. "There ams nothing else."

"Send in the head of security again, please," said Charles to the intercom as Skwisgaar went out, numb grey dread washing over him once more. He still couldn't fully grasp the situation. Pickles—gone? Surely they'd get him back before any harm came to him. Surely they'd get him back—? He couldn't think about the possibility. The first person he'd ever really cared about—vanished, torn away from him, maybe never coming back.

Just as he started to turn down the hallway to his room so he could be alone and try not to think about Pickles, he was intercepted by Nathan, Toki, and Murderface.

"Skwisgaar, what's happening?" demanded Nathan.

"Yeah, the robot's in a top schecret meeting and nobody will tell usch anything," said Murderface, glaring at Skwisgaar. "How did _you_ get in to schee him?"

"Where ams Pickle?" asked Toki.

Skwisgaar looked at them all. He didn't want to be the one to have to break the news, but then at least he could talk about it with someone who wasn't as distant and hard to read as Charles.

"Guys, I don'ts know hows to say this, but Pickle ams kidnap."

Whatever reaction he'd expected, it wasn't the one he got.

"What? You're shcrewing with usch!" said Murderface, jabbing his knife into the wall. "I don't believe that for a schecond."

"You're, uh, you're kidding, right?" Nathan gave a laugh that trailed off into an uncertain chuckle as he saw Skwisgaar's expression.

"That amnest not funnies, Skwisgaar," said Toki reproachfully.

"All right, fucks yous guys!" Skwisgaar turned and stalked off down the hall. "I don't needs to deals with this!"

#

After what seemed like hours, but may only have been minutes, the van came to a stop. Pickles heard one of the front doors open and slam shut, and footsteps approached him from the front of the van. Instinctively, he pulled his knees up to his chest, at least as much as he could, hoping to shield himself from further kicks, if Tony were so inclined. But it was difficult for him to move; his joints were stiff from the cold and the uncomfortable position he'd been forced to endure for—how long now? He really had lost track of time. Everything that had hurt before seemed to have amplified itself tenfold now, his whole head permeated by a dull, throbbing ache, through which he occasionally felt the sharp sting of his scraped shoulder and the cut on his face.

"Hey there, k-k-k-Pickles," lilted Dr. Rockso. "Ooh, it sure does look like the boss did a number on you," he giggled, and Pickles couldn't tell whether his voice held cold ridicule or saccharine sincerity. He also didn't much care anymore.

Dr. Rockso knelt next to him. Great, thought Pickles dully, now the clown was going to have a turn with him. Served him right, didn't it, after he'd made Tony do this to him? If he'd just gone quietly—but damn it, he hadn't had the _chance_ to go quietly—but still he should have done, somehow. He shouldn't have made Tony so upset at him.

Pickles gave a shudder as he felt Rockso's hand against his thigh, but the clown was only pulling up his pants.

"Mister Tony didn't really hurt you, did he? He promised he wouldn't," said Dr. Rockso.

Pickles merely groaned and turned his face away.

"That's k-k-k-all right, then," said Rockso brightly. "I knew he wasn't a bad guy. Plus, he gives me cocaine!" He had another fit of giggles as he finished buckling the drummer's belt. "Now, come on, don't just lie there. We gotta get you inside."

When Pickles did, in fact, continue to just lie there, Rockso leaned back with a frown, hands on his hips. "Well, all right, then. Looks like I'll have to carry you."

Rockso rolled open the door of the van and stepped down to the pavement. It was fully dark outside now, Pickles noted, as Dr. Rockso grabbed him around the waist and dragged him toward the door, then leaned down again to sling the smaller man over his shoulder.

"Ooh, Pickles, you're heavier than you look," said Dr. Rockso, staggering forward under the weight of the conscious but unresisting drummer. "Maybe you should go on a k-k-k-diet."

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Pickles gathered that they were in the parking lot of a dilapidated motel, though he couldn't raise his head enough to catch sight of any signs or surrounding landmarks. Luckily for Rockso (and unluckily for Pickles), the parking lot was poorly lighted, though the clown made a point of staying hidden behind the van until the door of the nearest room opened, flashing a beacon of yellow light into the darkness, and Rockso made a run for it, making Pickles dizzy, though it was over soon enough.

Now, they were inside the room, and Rockso dropped him to the bed as Tony shut and locked the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** All right, I'm back on US time now, though still jet lagged, so this was written half on my flight and half this morning when I woke up at 4:30. And, once again, narration is meant to be the characters' thoughts, and their opinions aren't meant to reflect my own.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Please don't sue me.

**PSA:** I'm not trying to moralize, but remember, if you use alcohol or drugs, please do so in a responsible manner.

**Contains: **Drug use, violence, emotional abuse, and **graphic depictions of sexual assault**.

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Six

Though Skwisgaar had started down the hall with the intention of going to his own room, he found his feet carrying him instead to Pickles's room. He hesitated a moment, then went in, shutting the door quietly and lying down on the drummer's bed, staring up at the lights. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow, breathing in its scent. Though he often spent the night in Skwisgaar's room, Pickles occasionally slept in his own bed to deflect suspicion, or if he felt like a nap in the middle of the day, and the bedding held his smell, one that evoked thoughts of smoke and soap and, for some reason unknown to Skwisgaar, white cotton handkerchiefs worn thin with washing, forgotten in the back of his grandparents' linen closet.

Skwisgaar shook his head. Of all the times to think of home. Besides, this was his home now, here, Mordhaus—with Pickles. Oh God, Pickles. Skwisgaar steeled himself against the impulse to crawl under the blankets, and instead stood and paced around the room. Surely the man had to have some good strong liquor around. That would take his mind off it, at least until the next morning, if he drank himself to sleep.

The alcohol seemed to be in short supply, though the drugs weren't. Various prescription bottles with the direction _take as needed_ lined the dresser, and in plain sight sat cocaine and marijuana, and a rather prettily swirled glass pipe, already neatly packed, just waiting to be smoked.

Well, that was all right, Skwisgaar decided. If anything, it'd help him relax. It was practically calling to him. He had little trouble finding a lighter among the bottles, but eventually did, and after a few minutes had a slight buzz going, as well as an unpleasant tickling in his chest. Skwisgaar frowned and cleared his throat. That was one reason he'd rarely smoked before hanging around Pickles so much—it made him cough. Like now. He dropped the pipe and lighter to the bed as he doubled over in a coughing fit.

_What the hell am I doing, anyway?_ Skwisgaar had to ask himself as he caught his breath. Pickles was in danger, had been kidnapped by (probably) his deranged ex, if not by someone worse, and the first thing Skwisgaar did was to snoop through his room and use his drugs? It was helping him relax, he argued with himself. It made him feel some connection with Pickles, since that was something they'd done together. _Ja, reallies romantics_, he could hear the others sneering. Not that they knew. They couldn't know about him and Pickles—couldn't know how he felt now, alone, horribly alone. He lay down, hugging the cold pillow to his chest, wishing he could do anything to help get Pickles back.

A tear rolled down his cheek, and then another. He couldn't deny it any longer: he was out of his mind with worry for the drummer. Pickles might be a member of the most brutal band in the world, and wasn't fragile by any means—Skwisgaar had seen what he could do in a fight—but an ambush like that had gotten the better of them both, and he didn't want to think about how badly Pickles might end up being hurt. The memory of the knife blade flashing in the masked man's hand sent a shiver through him.

A knock at the door made him sit up and scrub a hand across his eyes.

"Skwisgaar? You ams there?"

"What ams you wants, little Tokis?" snapped Skwisgaar as the Norwegian entered the room.

"What ams you doings in here?" he asked with what Skwisgaar bitterly labeled his usual cluelessness. "Oh. You ams cryings?"

"No, I amn'ts cryings! I ams gettings high."

"It ams okays," said Toki. "The butlers told us you ans telling the truth," he went on, looking mildly ashamed. "We—we's sorries we weren't believings you. It will be okays," he repeated when Skwisgaar didn't reply.

"It amnest not at alls okays," Skwisgaar contradicted him.

"You just feels bads because you was there," said Toki. "No one ams blamesings you for this, Skwisgaar. The guys, they amn'ts mads abouts it. What ams you supposed to done, huh?"

"I guess this ams the truthfuls," Skwisgaar admitted, dusting spilled ash from the sheets.

"Ja. We all ams worry about Pickle. No one puts you respons-skibles."

Trust Toki to completely miss the point. Skwisgaar hadn't felt responsible—not until now, anyway. He'd thought it'd been the best thing to do, to listen to the man holding a knife to his best friend's throat, instead of edging closer and risking what the blade could to do to the other man, who had seemed suddenly, in that moment, very breakable and very, very mortal.

#

"Well now," said Tony, grabbing Pickles by the shoulder and flipping him over on the bed to face upwards, "It's like I got my own personal delivery service. Good work, Rockso." He tossed him a baggie, and the clown nodded and backed out of the room, his eyes now alight with cocaine fantasies. The door fell shut behind him, leaving the other two men alone. Tony grinned down at Pickles, who looked up at him through frightened, red-rimmed eyes.

"Aww, you're not lookin' so pretty anymore, are you?"

Pickles closed his eyes, not that it took much to close the left, which was swollen nearly shut now.

"Did you like that, what we did on the way here? Was it good for you? I know I sure enjoyed it."

Pickles wouldn't look at him, trying to pretend he was anywhere else but in a cheap, dirty motel room at the mercy of the man who'd just beaten and raped him.

Tony frowned. "Answer me!" He reached over and tore the tape from Pickles's face, ripping away bits of his beard along with it and making him give a screech at the unexpected shock of pain. "You wanna do it again?" he asked.

Pickles gave a low moan and tried to find his voice. "N—no," he whispered. His throat hurt. As Tony got up to pace in front of the mirror, Pickles ran his tongue experimentally over dry, cracked lips, still able to feel bits of adhesive on his skin.

Then, before he knew what had happened, Tony was back at the foot of the bed, and gave him a stinging slap across the face, making him cry out again.

"We're gonna do it again," he said, and this time, Pickles saw the crazed look in his eyes, but could do nothing except shake his head no.

"You got to have all the fun before," said Tony.

Pickles stared up at him in disbelief. Fun? That was his idea of fun?

"And you didn't do nothin' for me. I bet you didn't even think of me, did you? You're just a selfish whore that's hungry for cock no matter where you get it."

"No," he said, his voice cracking.

"Yeah, you are. Say it. Say you're a whore."

Pickles shook his head.

Tony raised his hand threateningly. "Let's try it again, shall we?"

"I'm a whore," muttered Pickles.

"What's that? You gotta say it a little louder, baby."

Pickles took a deep breath. What did it matter now, anyway? It was true, after all. "I'm a whore."

"Now say you want my cock," said Tony, wasting no time in undoing his fly and whipping it out to dangle like some sort of repulsive worm before the drummer's face.

"What? No!"

"Say it!"

"Fuck you! I don't!"

Tony backhanded him hard, and blood began to pour from his nose. "You want me. Tell me you fucking want me!"

Pickles shook his head vehemently, sprinkling droplets of blood on the blankets and himself, until Tony came nearer and tightened a calloused hand over his throat.

"Say you want it."

The lights were overlaid with colorful spots, and the rest of the room started to blur as Tony's hand pressed down.

"Yeah," Pickles managed to gasp out. "I want it."

The next thing he knew, Tony's dick was in his face. "Get me hard, baby. Suck on it."

When Pickles couldn't bring himself to do it, Tony slapped him once more and thrust his mostly flaccid penis in his face, taking it in his hand and trying to force it into the drummer's half-open mouth.

Pickles thrashed on the bed, trying to escape, but it was harder and harder to muster the energy. His back and shoulders ached from the position his arms were in, and the temperature of the room seemed to switch between cool and unbearably hot at intervals. He was going to black out, he realized. But he couldn't let that happen. God only knew what Tony might do to him then.

Tony held on hand on the top of his head and tried once again to ram his dick into the drummer's mouth. He was only marginally harder, but had more success this time, making Pickles gag on his growing member. Pickles gave a whimper as his jaw began to ache. He couldn't do this. Between Tony's dick and the coagulating blood, he could barely breathe. Tears came to his eyes as he choked. Just like Tony and his parents and everyone else had always told him, he'd die in a cheap motel room, only they'd at least be wrong on one count, it wouldn't be from drugs or by his own hand. _Death by sucking dick_ flashed ludicrously through his mind. Yeah, then everyone would know how much of a whore he really was, like Tony had said. His jaw was going to break, or his neck. It was as if the pressure and the position he was being held it were jabbing tiny needles of agony into every muscle. The lights began to flicker again, and he blacked out.

Pickles came to a moment later to Tony leaning over him, slapping his face, in a relatively gentle way, compared to earlier. "Wake up. It's not as good when you're out."

Pickles gave a weak cough but didn't move, looking dully up at Tony, who was now stroking his own cock mechanically, as if it didn't interest him very much.

"You know, Pickles, I think you've lost some talent since we've been apart. You can't even make me get it up anymore." He gave the drummer a rough shake, and it was once again as if someone had flipped a switch sending him from calm back to enraged. "Maybe if you were more attractive, I wouldn't have this problem." Tony turned and punched him hard in the stomach. Pickles gave a gasp of pain, and rolled over, away from him. He was going to be sick, he knew he was going to be sick.

"When you can't even get a guy off who hasn't had any for months, you know you're fuckin' worthless."

Pickles gave no answer, as he was now leaning over the side of the bed, as much as he could, trying not to vomit.

Tony sighed and put his dick away, then went to the dresser and took up his knife again. "All right, I don't want to deal with your sorry ass puking everywhere, so I'm gonna let you out of this and put you in the bathroom, but if you try anything, I'll beat the shit out of you, got it?"

He sat down on the bed next to Pickles, took hold of his arm, and sawed through the tape on his wrists with the knife, not being particularly careful about it, and slicing the drummer's forearm in the process, though Pickles only half felt it. He wanted to roll over to see his hands, to see if there was any damage, but Tony still had hold of him. He'd begun to lose feeling a while before, but had pushed that worry to the back of his mind until now. Tony freed his legs as well now, but before Pickles could move, he seized him by the back of the collar, dragged him off the bed, and into the bathroom. The pain barely registered as his knees hit the grimy tile floor.

With shaky arms he propped himself up above the open toilet. Maybe he wouldn't really throw up now. Maybe if he kept his breathing very even, if he waited until he could stand, he could walk it off. Then he made the mistake of glancing down, and the sight of the urine-stained porcelain was too much, and he vomited.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **

Again, narration reflects the characters' thoughts, not my own.

As I wrote the bit with the telephone near the end of the chapter, I felt really old when I started thinking about cordless vs. corded phones, and realized that playing with the phone cord while talking must be a habit that seems totally foreign to people who might be only a few years younger than me. On the other hand, that train of thought led me to a pretty important plot point, so…

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own anything.

**Contains:** Profanity. Drug references. Descriptions of injuries. Emotional abuse.

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Seven

Pickles splashed water on his face and raised his head to look in the mirror. He had to steady himself by leaning heavily on the sink, though it was so shoddily attached to the wall that doubt as to whether it would hold his weight flashed through his mind as the pipes creaked dangerously. When his eyes focused, the sight that met them was not a pleasant one. He barely recognized himself. His right—no, left eye—was swollen shut, the skin around it a nasty shade of purple fading to red at the cut across his cheek. His whole face seemed puffy and swollen from the many times he'd been hit. Tiny bits of duct tape clung to his beard, some areas of which now had an uneven patchy look. _Wonderful_, he thought.

The faucet was still running, and he scooped a few handfuls of water into his mouth to wash away the taste of vomit, then cautiously attempted to rinse the dried blood from under his nose and at the corners of his mouth, but contact with the water stung, and he abandoned this idea.

Pickles's gaze travelled lower. He must have bled more than he thought, enough that it had dripped onto his shirt. He touched the wet spot at his shoulder and stifled a cry of both surprise and pain. The blood was still wet and sticky, and his touch had set off a deep, throbbing sting there.

Shakily, he reached up and pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal a short yet deep laceration just below his collarbone, still seeping thick, dark blood. All the times he'd been jerked around by Tony and Rockso, plus the constant motion tumbling him in the back of the van must have kept re-opening it, he guessed.

Now he remembered to look at his hands, and was relieved to find that the color of his skin had, for the most part, returned to normal, and he had only a few small scrapes across his knuckles, though the cut on his arm where Tony's knife had bit into his skin a few moments ago still bled. Pickles lifted his shirt and took note of the bruises and swelling. He didn't think he had any broken ribs, but everything hurt so much he couldn't be sure. He briefly considered dropping his pants to inspect the damage that had been done to him there, but the mirror was mounted too high on the wall for him to get a good look, and besides, Tony could come in any second.

All right. Pickles tried to get his thoughts together, difficult though it was. He hadn't eaten for hours, and felt light-headed, but he tried to fight his way through it. As far as he could tell, he hadn't suffered any injuries that were permanent or immediately life-threatening, though the wound in his shoulder did worry him.

Perhaps he could talk to Tony, reason with him—no. He'd already tried, and this was where it had gotten him. Maybe there was a window, he thought with a sudden flash of hope. No. The only window in the bathroom was high above the toilet, and while he could probably reach it by standing on the lid of the tank, it was much too small for a person to climb through. If he could lock the door, though, then maybe he could hold off Tony for a while. He moved closer to the door, hand moving tentatively toward the doorknob—no luck there, either. The lock was broken. _Fuck_.

Pickles sank back to the tile floor, head in his hands.

#

Outside the very same window Pickles had just rejected as a means of escape, Dr. Rockso crouched in the cobwebby bushes. He bit his painted lower lip in indecision, then stood and tiptoed away, splinters of old mulch clinging to his jumpsuit.

Keeping to the shadows until he'd reached the other side of the long, low building, Rockso surveyed the parking lot and found it satisfactorily deserted before he approached the dilapidated pay phone behind the office. _It might not work anymore_, he told himself hopefully. Producing a few coins from beneath his peaked cap, he dropped them in and dialed a number. He tried again to calm his nerves: _ And he might not even pick up_. The clown cheered at the thought as the phone continued to ring, but then, to his dismay, he heard the click of an answer through the static.

"Hellos?"

"T-T-T-Toki?"

"Dr. Rockso! How ams you doing?" Then the pitch of the Norwegian's voice dropped in disappointment. "Wait, you amn'ts in jails again, ams you?"

"No! Ooh, Toki, I gotta tell you, I'm only callin' 'cause you're my friend, and I know k-k-k-Pickles is _your _friend, and he's in some real bad trouble." Rockso giggled involuntarily. "I think Mister—I mean, I think he might get himself hurt _real_ bad."

"Ja, we—wait, whats? You know where Pickle am ats?"

Rockso giggled again, stalling for time. "I do cocaine?" he said, hoping this would be a satisfactory answer.

"Dr. Rockso! You gots to tell me!" Toki's voice was stern, harsher than the clown had ever heard it before.

"Oh, but T-T-T-Toki, I can't do that. He'll k-k-k-kill me."

"Who ams will kill you? Hangs on, I gives you to de butlers."

"Oh, _no_! Don't do that," said Rockso, trying to twirl the phone cord in his fingers, and failing, as it was steel wire instead of the thin twisted cable that had been automatically supplied by his mind. "They sure don't make phones like they used to," he heard himself saying, and then, in horror, slammed down the receiver. They sure _didn't_ make phones like they used to. Now they had caller ID, and if Toki had the number of the pay phone, Offdensen would be able to track the location and be here in no time. He gave a shudder, unsure whether he feared the wrath of Offdensen more than that of Tony, or vice versa.

Rockso sneaked to the van, bundled his belongings into a blanket, and sprinted a good distance down the road before he began trying to hitch a ride.

#

Tony kicked open the bathroom door, sending it crashing hard against Pickles's back. "You done in there?" he sneered. "What's taking so long, are you fixing your make-up?" He laughed heartily at his own joke as Pickles merely stared down at his feet in silence.

"What's the matter, babe? Feelin' guilty for cheating on your little boyfriend?"

Pickles felt yet another wave of cold wash over him. "I didn't," he whispered. But hadn't he? Would Skwisgaar see it that way? "You forced me," he said, louder, meeting Tony's eyes now. "I—I didn't want—"

"_Ooh, Tony, baby, give it to me, I want that big, hard cock of yours,"_ Tony imitated in falsetto. "Yeah, really sounds like you didn't want it there."

"I didn't say that," said Pickles desperately. No, he hadn't said that exactly, but he'd still said he'd wanted it, hadn't he? How could anyone not hold him responsible after that? How could Skwisgaar ever want him after that, after Pickles displaying just how willing he was to be used by anyone?

"Yeah, sure you didn't, baby. You and I both know what you said. How are you ever gonna go back and look that sweet blonde thing in the eye and make him believe you still want him?"

Tears came to the drummer's eyes. He _did_ still want Skwisgaar. Or did he? Maybe he didn't want anyone any more. Maybe it would be better for him to just be alone for a really, really long time, like forever.

"Or, more important, do you think he's going to want you—if you ever see him again? When it's written all over your face what you've been doing?"

Pickles raised a hand to trace over his bruises. Tony laughed.

"I don't mean that, dumbass. I mean how you can never hide your feelings. He'll take one look at you and _know_. Everyone will know that I've had you again and you liked it."

"That's not true," said Pickles, trying to convince himself, and he could no longer keep the tears from spilling over. "It's not true."

Still standing over him in the bathroom doorway, Tony laughed and laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Probably one or two more chapters after this one, not exactly sure, but there will be at least one more.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Contains: Violence, profanity, emotional abuse, and stream-of-consciousness hallucinations.

Caught Off Guard: Chapter Eight

"Hey, baby, want a drink?" A bottle of Night Train flashed into Pickles's view, dangling by its neck from between Tony's fingers.

Pickles didn't answer or move from where he sat against the open bathroom door, hands between his knees, staring down at the tile floor.

"Hey, c'mon, move it," said Tony, prodding Pickles in the hip with his foot. "I didn't bring you here to sit around and look pretty—and hell, you're not even doing that." He uncapped the bottle, took a long drink, and belched, wiping his mouth. "Still don't like me yet? I thought you'd be all over me by now, now that we've broken the ice and got down to the lovemakin'."

"Let me go," said Pickles, distantly, half-surprised to hear himself voice the words.

Tony's head jerked down sharply as he stared at the drummer. "What now? Let you go? Why on earth would I do that?"

"Let me go," he repeated, pleading. "We…we can go for a ride, and you can drop me off somewhere. I don't even know where we're at now. I won't tell anybody about this. I'll say," he gestured to his face, "that I got in a fight."

Tony, whose face had slowly widened into an amused grin as Pickles had spoken, shook his head. "Huh-uh, babe. Not happening." He took another drink of wine. "Are you forgetting about your Scandinavian friend back there? _He_ saw too much for that to work. Besides, what do I get out of letting you go with nothing to show for it, huh? Not that you ever think of how these things affect me," he growled, stooping to grab Pickles by the collar and drag him in close.

By this point, exhausted and broken, Pickles didn't even protest as Tony dragged him to his feet and into the bedroom, throwing him onto the bed. A hot, stinging pain stabbed through his injured shoulder, and he felt blood begin to seep into his shirt as the wound was torn open again. His wrist also stung as the coarse material of the motel's blankets rubbed across his most recent injury.

"You know, I shoulda grabbed Blondie back there, too. Lord knows what I could do to that tight little ass. More than you've done, I bet" he added. "Your dick's pretty small. Mine, on the other hand…"

Pickles turned out the other man's voice. He had resigned himself to his fate. He really was going to die here. He couldn't physically handle much more of Tony's treatment, and he was so very tired; anything that ended the pain and the constant fear of the next moment could only come as a relief. He curled up on the edge of the bed.

"Come on, Pickles, don't be like that," coaxed Tony, coming over to sit down next to him. When he began stroking Pickles's arm, the drummer felt cold revulsion rising within him, but couldn't find the energy or the will to brush Tony's hand away.

"Don't be like that, now," repeated Tony, his voice dangerous again as his hand snaked over toward Pickles's neck.

This was it, the drummer realized as he felt the other man's fingers tighten over his already-bruised throat. Once or twice more being choked, a few more blows to the face, and it'd all be over. He couldn't withstand any more. _Dear God, please, please, just let it end—_

A splintering crash, a swarm of masked black figures under a light that flickered like flame, shouting, struggling, fingers on his throat, tearing at him or being torn away, he couldn't tell, thumping kicks, screams, snarls of animal rage. Now, Charles's transparent disembodied face gazing down at him. Was this all a hallucination? Maybe none of it was real, Tony had killed him, and this was what you saw before you died, floated away, went on your way to wherever it was that bad little drummer boys went to, a land beyond the clouds, territory of darkness and flashing neon, where he'd float around with John Bonham and Keith Moon. Hands on him now, was it the great dead ones come to take him away there, to pull him out of his too-far-damaged body? He tried to offer them his wrists, to let them take him, but he couldn't see their faces, and now the sudden wet cold tangle of tentacles on his skin. He screamed then, tried to fight it, and there was an instant of freezing blackness.

Pickles blinked up at Charles and Skwisgaar with his one non-swollen eye, his hands going weakly to the sopping towel draped around his neck. Charles looked almost worried, which was as worried as anyone had ever seen him, and the sleeves of his suit jacket were dark with water. Skwisgaar, in comparison, looked utterly distraught, his eyes enormous yet far away as he stared half-seeing down at Pickles, twisting a lock of blonde hair absently in both hands.

"Pickles?" said Charles. "You're, ah, awake?"

Pickles tried to answer, and heard himself give an unintelligible rasping moan. A cup was pressed to his lips, and he welcomed the cool water that flowed into his mouth, even if swallowing was agony on his throat. Then he had to push the cup away, coughing, spitting up water and blood onto himself and the other men, fearing for a moment that he'd vomit again, but no, there was nothing left for his stomach to reject.

Charles, his face as impassive as he could keep it, exchanged a look with Skwisgaar, who nodded in return as the manager rose and started toward the group of various Klokateers who remained in the room, removing his soiled jacket and handing it off to one of his employees to discard.

"Pickle, what dids they do to you?" whispered Skwisgaar, his fingertips hovering above Pickles's face. He hesitated to touch him, fearing that he'd only hurt him further. "Pickle, please, don'ts be mads, I shoulds haves done somethings. I'm so sorries I let him takes you, but I ams here now." Skwisgaar reached out to take his hand, but Pickles shied away from his touch with a sob, bringing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face.

Skwisgaar felt as if his heart were being ripped out. He wanted nothing more than to hold Pickles and comfort him after whatever had happened, but it seemed that this was only causing the drummer more pain. Pickles stared unseeing at the chipped paint on the wall, tears coursing down his face and mingling with the dried blood to streak across his skin.

Skwisgaar tried again, trying to blink away the sting that had come to his own eyes. He'd never seen Pickles in such a state before, so completely destroyed, such raw misery. He would've been willing to do anything to make him stop feeling it, and at the same time, when he looked at Pickles's injuries, at his battered face and bloodied clothing, he wanted to hurt Tony more than he'd ever wanted to hurt anyone before in his life.

"Please, Pickle, comes backs," he heard himself begging. "_Min älskling_, please, I love you, please lets me do something. Ams it bads? He—he ams hurtings you bads?" Skwisgaar's voice broke, and he didn't care anymore, didn't care that he'd started to cry in front of Pickles and Charles and a dozen Klokateers. He couldn't hold back the rage and the feeling of impotence and the complete shock he felt at finding Pickles like this. He felt like the world was crumbling, and was barely aware that he'd reached out for Pickles again until their hands touched. Then Pickles was half-lying, half-sitting, but now in Skwisgaar's arms, sobbing against his chest, arms thrown about his waist with a strength borne of desperation.

"Pickle, my sweetheart, it ams okays, I will make everythings okays, I won'ts let him hurts you no more."

Skwisgaar didn't let go of him even as Charles made eye contact and gave a discreet cough of warning, or as he approached with the doctor in tow, or as the latter took out a hypodermic and told Pickles in a soothing tone what he was about to do before the needle plunged into his arm. Only once the sedative had taken effect and the black-clad paramedics stood waiting did he finally release the mercifully unconscious drummer from his grasp.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Finally finished! I know it took me a bit longer to write this segment, but it was also the most difficult to write in a way that I felt was fitting.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

**PSA:** Have safe sex, etc.

**Contains:** Profanity, sex, unpleasant aftereffects.

Caught Off Guard Chapter Nine

Skwisgaar knocked lightly at Pickles's door. "Pickle? Cans I come ins?"

"Yeah." Whether the reply was meant to be curt, or whether Pickles was sparing his still-weak voice, Skwisgaar couldn't tell.

The guitarist decided he'd find out, and went inside. The entire band had gone to visit Pickles in his private hospital room the day before, but this was the first time the two had been alone since Pickles had returned to Mordhaus last night, twenty-four hours after he'd been tracked down at the motel.

"I broughts you some tea," he said as he shut the door. "The doctors ams sayings you shouldn'ts be drinking the alks-cohols yet."

Pickles nodded, but didn't touch the tray that Skwisgaar sat on his nightstand, although it was within his reach. Skwisgaar picked up the teapot and poured out two cups, one for each of them, and offered one to Pickles.

"Thanks," he whispered, taking it and letting the warmth of the cup soak into his trembling hands. Everything still hurt, but not quite as badly, and whatever painkillers he'd been given seemed to help, though he'd developed enough of an immunity to them over the years that no normal dosage would stop him from feeling the two cracked ribs and the row of stitches in his shoulder. No one had offered him a mirror, but Pickles knew that his face was still bruised, though the swelling at his eye had gone down enough that he could now see out of it. He'd peeked beneath the bandages wrapping his right wrist and was pleased to see that the cut there was healing nicely—at least, as pleased as he could feel about anything now.

"You ams feelings any betters?" asked Skwisgaar, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He reached out to touch Pickles's arm, but the drummer moved away from him. Skwisgaar folded his hands in his lap and cast his eyes downward. "Sorries."

"It—it ain't you," said Pickles. "You're gonna be mad, but I gotta tell ya somethin'." He took a drink of his tea to stall for time.

"What ams that?" asked Skwisgaar. "Dids you want sugars in you's tea? Sorries I dids not think of it."

"No," said Pickles, and leaned back against his pillows, pressing his eyes closed. "I gotta tell ya what happened with me and Tony the other night."

"Ja?" asked Skwisgaar, worry written on his face. He'd been afraid of this, especially knowing what had happened the last time Tony had tried to force his attentions on Pickles, but it hadn't seemed right to ask until Pickles wanted to talk about it.

"He—when we were in the van—" Pickles turned his face away, unable to look at Skwisgaar as he said it. "He tied me up and took off my pants, and—and—"

"It ams okay. You don'ts have to talks abouts if it ams upsettings you." Skwisgaar wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was afraid he'd only make him shy away again.

Pickles shook his head and went on in a rush. "He—he put his fingers in me and jacked me off til I came." His voice broke into a sob, and his knuckles had gone white against his teacup.

Skwisgaar felt as though he'd been struck in the back of the head, icy water dripping down his back, too cold to properly feel the nausea that lay one level underneath it. "Oh…Pickle. I'm so sorries."

"I didn't want it," said Pickles, turning back to him now. "You know I didn't want it, right?"

"Of course you ams nots wanting it."

"Only—he said I did want it. And I don't know anymore." Pickles wiped his eyes. "And then after that, I sucked his cock. He made me do it—I think," he broke off in confusion, his lower lip trembling. "I said I was a whore for him, I said I wanted it—only I didn't want it, but he kept hittin' me til I did—til I said so. He said I did want it. He said I wanted all I could get, that I was cheating, that I didn't—didn't love you," he whispered, turning away from Skwisgaar again.

"Do you loves me?"

Still crying, Pickles nodded.

"Then he was wrongs, okays? He was lyings, to's hurts you."

"He was lying," repeated Pickles. "Yeah."

"You remembers hows you felt abouts him the last time this amnest happening, when he was coming into your hotels rooms? How you hateds him then, saids you never wanteds to be seeing him agains?"

"Yeah?"

"You ams nots wantings it, then. You hates him. It ams like—like—" he searched desperately for an example, and went on lamely, "like if someones hurts you until you says you ams liking them, but you amnest not really likings them, only want the hurtings to stop, ja? Ands the rest, that ams phys-skicals re-as—reas-kons—reas-ctions," he corrected himself. "It ams out of your controls."

"Yeah," said Pickles, and he inched back toward the side of the bed nearer Skwisgaar. "Yeah, you're right. I just feel so fuckin' dirty—like I wanna shower forever, only it's not gonna make any difference."

"It will gets betters," said Skwisgaar. "I promise I will makes it gets betters."

#

Skwisgaar lay on his bed, hands beneath his head as he stared up at the ceiling. It had been a little over two weeks since Pickles had returned to Mordhaus, and while he'd made a good recovery so far, Skwisgaar hadn't made the slightest attempt at anything to do with sex. He could tell this wasn't like last time, when Tony's intent had been obvious but had failed miserably. This time, he was afraid to do anything to make Pickles withdraw more, to send him fleeing back into his own head, or, God forbid, to make him cry any more. He put up a good front in public, and, aside from Charles, the rest of the guys had no reason to think that it had gone any further than his obvious injuries. But the rest of the time, Pickles vanished somewhere, off on his own, and other times sat alone in his room. He didn't tell Skwisgaar to go away if he came by, but the drummer also made no effort to seek him out. Now Pickles slept in his own room at night.

Skwisgaar had stopped by the drummer's room that morning and asked him: "You still wants to do's this? That we ams be togethers?"

"Yeah, dood, why?" Pickles had looked surprised. "Do—do you not wanna?"

"Of course I wants to, but you ams so…far aways. I cannots tell whether you still ams wanting me. You stay in your room alls the times, you never ams wanting that I touch you." As soon as the last words left his lips, he felt guilty. Of course, he could understand why Pickles wouldn't want to be touched, and he, Skwisgaar, hadn't specifically referenced anything sexual, but how could Pickles fail to see that that was part of it?

"I—I've been going and talking to Twinkletits lately," said Pickles after a moment's hesitation. "That's where I've been in the afternoons. I thought it might help."

"Ams it helping?" asked Skwisgaar.

"I think so. I mean, the dood's mental, but he's still a licensed professional…heh. Should work, right?" Pickles gave Skwisgaar a pained smile and shrugged.

"Cans—cans I touch you?"

Pickles nodded, and Skwisgaar came to him, hugging him, but keeping his touch light until he felt the smaller man's arms latch around his waist, his embrace hard, hands gripping the material of his shirt, and then Skwisgaar let himself pull Pickles in closer, holding him tight, the way he'd wanted to hold him since the moment Pickles had been dragged away from him in the park that night, but taking care to avoid his injured ribs.

He leaned down to let his lips brush against the drummer's forehead in a brief kiss, then they both pulled back and looked at each other. Pickles was looking nearly back to normal, Skwisgaar realized, aside from the fresh pink scar across his cheek and the to match one on his wrist, both of which looked as if they'd fade further with time.

"You looks a lots better," he'd said, and Pickles had nodded wordlessly before they'd both gone out to join the others for breakfast.

Now, Skwisgaar glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Pickles would probably be talking to Twinkletits right about now. He should have plenty of time…

Skwisgaar unzipped his jeans and eased his erect member free. He felt like he'd been masturbating all the time now, since he wasn't doing anything with Pickles, and he felt vaguely guilty about it. But why should he feel guilty? It wasn't as if either of them had any objection to the other flying solo, but still he felt as if he were being inconsiderate in some way.

But he needed this—yes, needed it, needed his hand on his cock, stroking. Better if it were Pickles doing it, stroking him, taking him into his mouth, giving him that sultry look that showed he knew exactly what he was doing. Skwisgaar's hand moved faster. God, yes, the little redhead was so sexy and didn't even realize it. All Skwisgaar had to do was think about him and he'd get turned on.

He could hear his own heavy breathing, and bit his lip to keep from moaning aloud. His fingers curled tighter around his cock, and he closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of Pickles's mouth around him.

"Mmm…ja..." he breathed, imagining Pickles's tongue against his skin, the way he took in as much as he could and made it evident that he wanted more, the little moans of pleasure he gave around Skwisgaar's dick testament to just how much he himself got off from the act.

Skwisgaar was so into his fantasy that he heard neither the light knock followed by the door swinging open nor the click of the latch as it shut again nor Pickles approaching across the room, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the hot-and-bothered blonde, pale skin flushed, writhing on the bed.

"Hey Skwisgaar, whatcha doin'?"

Skwisgaar's eyes snapped open, and he froze.

"I—I was just thinkings abouts you."

"Can—can I help ya out there?" asked Pickles quietly, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face.

"Onlies if you ams reallies wanting to." God, yes, he wanted this, but he didn't want to do anything to make Pickles feel obligated. Neither did he want to display enough reluctance to make him realize that, and perhaps bring up unpleasant memories.

"Oh, I wanna." Pickles leaned over him, nudging Skwisgaar's hand off of his cock and replacing it with his own. He began to stroke in a slow rhythm, making Skwisgaar gasp.

"Ohh…ja…feels goods."

"Mmm…yeah, talk to me," whispered Pickles, increasing his pace.

"Ja…Pickle...I likes this…mmm…I wants you," murmured Skwisgaar, thrusting upward into his hand. "Touch me...like that's…oh God, ja, ja." He was getting close now, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tightening as his breathing quickened.

Pickles leaned down and took just the tip of his penis in his mouth. Skwisgaar moaned.

"Unhh…ja, please, ja, don'ts stop."

Pickles continued to stroke him as he began to tongue the head of his cock. He'd missed doing this, missed seeing the beautiful blonde losing control like this, the incredible feeling of knowing that he, Pickles, was the cause of it. He wasn't sure now why he'd been avoiding it; if anything, it had been the idea rather than the act itself putting him off.

Skwisgaar's broken stream of words had lapsed into Swedish, and while Pickles couldn't understand it, he loved the sound, loved knowing that he'd distracted the guitarist so much that he couldn't think in English anymore. But then Skwisgaar's hands came up to caress his hair, and the sudden, horrid sensation of Tony clutching at his face flashed into his mind, Tony forcing himself into his mouth, making him choke—

With a strangled cry, Pickles pulled away from Skwisgaar and collapsed onto the flagstones, a sob escaping him.

Skwisgaar's hand closed on the air where Pickles had been before he sat up in confusion and a momentary flash of _what the fuck_? He had been close—really close—and now nothing. He couldn't help but feel annoyance, but at the sight of the drummer huddled on the floor, he shoved it away to the back of his mind, trying to tell himself that it was mostly physical, and with a feeling of guilty resentment, tucked his still-hard, now-aching cock back into his jeans before he slipped down off the bed to join Pickles.

"Hey, what ams the matter? I didn'ts—didn'ts hurts you, dids I?" he asked in growing concern, placing a hand on Pickles's shoulder.

Pickles shook his head and tried to sit up, reaching for Skwisgaar's hand. "Sorry, dood. Flashback. I—he was—" He broke off, wiping a hand over his face, trying to forget.

"Shh, it ams okays," said Skwisgaar, helping him to sit up and pulling him close with his back against Skwisgaar's chest, hoping that Pickles wouldn't feel his erection. Too late.

"Ah, fuck, sorry, dood. I kinda left ya hangin' there. Fuck." Pickles shook his head. "I didn't mean—that's a shitty thing to do. I'll get ya off real quick if you want…"

Skwisgaar shook his head; he didn't want to inflict further damage upon the drummer. Besides, he could tell that Pickles felt bad about it, and now his guilt at his own irritation seemed to double in weight.

"I should go. I should go now."

"If you wants," agreed Skwisgaar, letting his arms drop from Pickles's trembling frame. "I woulds like if you ams staying, but if you wants to go…"

Pickles hesitated. "You—can I stay? Even if I don't do anything for ya?"

"Pickle! Of course. What ams the matter with you, thinkings like thats?"

Pickles moved closer to Skwisgaar and buried his face against the silken blonde hair and the soft skin of his neck.

He slept in Skwisgaar's room that night, pressed close against the other man's body, and Skwisgaar murmured words of comfort to him every time Pickles woke up tense and shaking from a nightmare.

#

A month passed, and the situation had improved considerably, if gradually. Now Pickles was back to sleeping in Skwisgaar's room most nights, and his nightmares had decreased to a rarity. Slowly, they'd begun to build back up to where they'd been in their relationship before Tony had swooped in and made his best attempt at shattering their lives. It still happened on occasion that Pickles had flashbacks and sudden moments of disgust and fear, but for the most part, these had decreased, and the two men's sex life was quickly approaching its previous level.

On this particular evening, Skwisgaar came back to his room to find Pickles there, waiting for him, lying on his side, naked, across the bed, knee slightly raised, one hand between his legs, partially covering himself up.

Skwisgaar did a double take, and then remembered to close and lock the door before anyone happened to wander down the hallway and catch sight of the nude redhead on his bed…waiting for him.

"Hey there," said Pickles, winking at him, the low lamplight of the darkened room making his eyes shine a deep green and giving his skin a flushed appearance—or was that real? "I've been waiting for you."

"Oh?" said Skwisgaar, practicing great restraint by not immediately beginning to undress. "Why ams that?"

"Oh, ya know, I was thinkin' we could do something a little different tonight," he breathed. As he shifted his hand, Skwisgaar saw that he was slowly moving a dildo in and out of himself—the one that he'd gotten weeks ago. Its presence in his nightstand drawer had completely slipped his mind.

"I've been getting ready for ya," Pickles went on, giving a slight shudder as the toy brushed against the pleasure spot inside him.

Skwisgaar stripped off his shirt and kicked off his boots on the way to the bed, climbing up next to Pickles and kissing him deeply. He found himself being pressed down onto the bed as Pickles continued to kiss him back and ran a hand down over his chest. Skwisgaar's hand moved up Pickles's thigh, replacing the drummer's hand on the dildo and slowly working it in and out of him. Pickles rubbed Skwisgaar's hard cock through his jeans, making him arch his back upward and begin to wish that his pants weren't so tight, as the pressure of the material against his straining erection became almost painful.

"Ahh…Pickle, lets me…lets me gets uns-dresseds," he begged. "Please, I ams—I need this."

Pickles grinned and reached down to undo his fly, letting his hand play over Skwisgaar's cock before he slid his jeans down past his hips. Skwisgaar gave a whimper and thrust upwards, prompting Pickles to slide off him, moving to the side and handing him a bottle of lube.

Skwisgaar hastily finished removing his jeans and liberally applied the cool, slick liquid to himself, making sure to do a thorough job. At first, the temperature wasn't the most pleasant sensation, but once the initial chill had gone, Skwisgaar found himself becoming even more aroused. Pickles slid the toy out of himself and climbed back onto Skwisgaar, who reached up to circle his entrance with lube-coated fingers; it couldn't hurt, he figured, to take a little extra care and be sure he wouldn't cause harm to his lover.

After a moment, Pickles, breathing heavily, shooed his hand away and took hold of Skwisgaar's cock, guiding it toward him and sinking down onto it, slowly and cautiously. He winced slightly; the dildo had gone a long way toward preparing him for this, but Skwisgaar was still too big for him to take in easily.

"I amn'ts hurtings you?" asked Skwisgaar, trying with everything he had to keep perfectly still.

"Nah. I mean, it hurts a little, we just gotta go slow."

Skwisgaar nodded and reached up to stroke Pickles, making him sigh with pleasure and desire. The way he looked down at Skwisgaar from half-lidded eyes, the way he bit his lip like that—

"My Gods, Pickle, you goings to makes me come alreadies if you keep lookings at me like that."

Pickles gave a small moan and, steadying himself against the bed with one hand, forced himself down lower on Skwisgaar's dick, little by little, interminably, until the blonde was fully sheathed.

"Oh my God, dood, I didn't think I could really do it," he whispered, a half-mad grin taking over his face. "Fuck, this feels—a little weird, but fuckin' incredible."

Skwisgaar gave a grunt of agreement, still suppressing his desire to start thrusting. Pickles felt incredibly tight around him, and the heat—he shuddered. "You—you do's it. I ams nots wanting to hurts you."

Pickles began carefully to raise and lower himself, uncertainty showing on his face as he continually searched for a different angle. Skwisgaar's fingers curled into the bed sheets as if his life depended on it, his breath catching in his chest as he watched the redhead ride him. Just watching Pickles was almost enough to send him over the edge.

Pickles leaned down to kiss Skwisgaar, then broke away from the kiss and moved lower to bite his neck and shoulder, making Skwisgaar cry out. His hands flew to Pickles's hips, pulling him slightly forward, and Pickles gasped.

"Oh, yeah, dood, right there. Right…fuckin'…there." He moved on Skwisgaar's dick as the blonde tentatively began to thrust into him.

"Hnngh…ja…you ams so goods, Pickle."

"I love how ya feel inside me." Pickles moved his hips faster, droplets of sweat appearing on his forehead. "You don't know how bad I've wanted this."

"Ja, ja…oh Gods, fucks me, Pickle, ja, like that."

"Touch me," ordered the drummer. "Touch my cock. Make me come."

Skwisgaar nodded, desperately, and let one hand move down from Pickles's hip to take his engorged member in his hand and stroke him quickly as Pickles bounced on his cock, hands pressing down on his chest.

"Unhh...fuck…that's good, you're good, honey."

"Ja…ja, you ams—haahh—" His words were lost as he felt Pickles tightening around him. The drummer threw his head back and cried out as he came, jetting hot liquid onto Skwisgaar's skin. Pickles's writhing, his face, his cry, and his muscles contracting around Skwisgaar's cock all combined to make him follow suit, jerking upwards to grab and Pickles and press his face against the other man's chest as he spilled into him.

After a moment, they separated, Skwisgaar still taking care not to hurt Pickles as he slid out of him. He searched for something to clean up with, and with fleeting reluctance settled on his own discarded shirt. He _really_ didn't want to get out of bed to find a towel and drip everywhere in the process.

Once they were suitably clean, Skwisgaar flopped back onto the pillows and Pickles followed, nestling against him.

"We gotta do that again sometime," said Pickles. "Maybe not real soon—I dunno if I can take that—but sometime."

"Ja," agreed Skwisgaar. "But you gots to do's it to me nexts times."

"We'll see," said Pickles, and kissed him on the cheek. He hesitated, and then said, "Thanks, by the way."

"Whats fors?"

"For bein' so gentle. That was maybe the nicest I've ever had it. With you, I don't have to worry about ya hurtin' me."

"Pickle, I woulds never hurts you."

Pickles nodded, and held him closer. "I know."


End file.
